SEVERED (A Tale of Sleepy Hollow) (18 page)

That, I did not
account for. It was imperative that I didn’t waste time. So as not to cast
suspicion, I made a few comments about the farm then, “If you’ll excuse me, I
think I’ll retire. I must be mindful and alert each morning.”

“Teaching,” he huffed.
“I don’t know how you do it.”

I looked on him
softly. “Believe me, Father, I’m only doing what needs to be done.”

* *
*

There is no other feeling like the
anxiety of waiting alone in the dark. Among the shadows you have only your
thoughts to occupy you. And it is then that you learn who you are, what you’re
capable of…and to what extreme.

While it’s true
that I have done a few immoral things in my life, tonight’s endeavor would be
illegal.

Who would be hurt?

No one.

Who would be
saved?

Everyone.

This is what I’d
become. Someone capable of going to the extreme.

I waited until
Father turned in – till all was still and quiet – then, with only the waxing
moon for light, I slipped down the stairs and crept to the stables.

My heart nearly
drummed out of my chest, but I forced myself on. I quietly saddled Dewdrop and,
petting her soft gray muzzle, led her out. “Shhh.” It was only after guiding
her to the road that I mounted.

I glanced over my
shoulder toward the hill, expecting The Horseman to be waiting. Tonight it
stood empty.

Where are you
hiding?

At first I was
inclined to spur my horse on, race toward town. But a clandestine endeavor such
as this requires silence. And no one would likely be roused by the gentle
clip-clomp of Dewdrop’s hoofbeats. With my cloak and hood to conceal me, I
pressed on.

The Magistrate’s
court sat squarely in the middle of town, but I skirted around the main road to
avoid The River Song. Though fear of The Horseman had most town folk shut in,
the tavern dwellers would always take risk for a drink.

Save for a few
lighted windows, the streets were dark and vacant. I dismounted and led Dewdrop
to a foul smelling neglected alley between the butcher shop and the courthouse.
An overgrowth of walnut trees blocked the moonlight, and though I stumbled in
the darkness, I was thankful for the cloak of blackness to shield me.

I tried the
backdoor –
please open
– of course it was locked. My only other option
was to climb through a window. Fortune was with me as one in the back slid
easily open. Checking left and right, I clambered up and slipped inside.

The room in which
I found myself was spacious and wide. An elaborate oak desk with block and
shell carving sat in the center, surrounded by three walls of shelves. With
trembling hands, I lit one of the candles on the desk. Holding it high, I
circled, then came to the realization that this highly wrought office could
only belong to one person…the Magistrate. And that meant somewhere within that
desk would be a precious set of keys. I combed through two of the drawers
before I found them. With the candle to guide me, I stepped out and into the
court chamber. I then took the short stairwell that led to the basement.

It descended into
a corridor with three doors. Three doors and seven keys.

Quickly.

My heart sounded
in my ears as I chose the smallest door under the stairs. And after trying two
of the keys, the lock quietly clicked open.

I stepped inside
and
Dear God!
This room had surely been forgotten. Dust. Cobwebs.
Clutter. A graveyard of broken furniture, rusted lanterns, and trunks. W
hat
a mess!

I scratched my
nose, stifling a sneeze.

Tracing through
the maze of disorder, I spotted a large pine box against a wall. It had no
lock, but several crates were stored on top.

Please let them
be moveable.

I managed two, but
the other was like lugging a stubborn mule. I shifted it back and forth. It
inched closer and closer to the edge, then dropped off with a thud. My chest
heaved from the effort, and I took a moment to catch my breath – which was
already shallow from fear.

The pine box had
no hinges, so I shoved the top off. Then lifting the candle, I peered inside.
There they were – the remaining weapons – broken, rusted or taken apart. Among
them were a few muskets and pistols. Some bayonets. The swords had settled to
the bottom. When I lifted one of the guns the entire mass shifted, sending a
racket of clanking iron echoing through the room.

I scrabbled back
and froze, holding in a yelp.
Surely the entire Hollow had heard that.
I
waited, hand to my heart. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked, but there was
no other noise.

No one heard.
Now hurry.

I removed sword
after sword, laying them out for inspection. Some were still sheathed in their
scabbards. Most appeared to be standard military swords, used by the patriots
who fought and died here. There were daggers, cutlasses, sabers. This was
idiocy. Even if the Hessian’s sword were here, how would I know which was his?

But then…

I gingerly took
out one incomparable to the rest. A grim sword with a single-edge jagged blade.
The hilt looked carved from an antler. The yellowed grip was worn and speckled,
but it was the pommel I found most repulsive. On each side, were the carved
faces of tortured men, their mouths frozen in silent shrieks.

This was his.

On further
inspection, I noticed the grip felt too dense and smooth to have been shaped
from an antler. Realization seized me.
Holy God in Heaven!
This hilt was
crafted from bone.

Human bone.

Bile rose to by
throat, and I took gasping breaths to suppress it.

I loathed the
thought of touching this evil weapon, but…
This is why you came.
With
quaking hands, I sheathed it in one of the scabbards, then replaced everything
as best I could – except the heavy box I couldn’t lift. I tucked the sword
under my cloak and cautiously crept out, locking the basement tight. I exited
through the backdoor, mounted Dewdrop, and wasted not a second fleeing the
scene of my crime.

My heart thundered
as I bolted home.

Is he waiting?
Wanting? I’m carrying what is rightfully his.

The closer I got
to our farm, the more anxious I became.

So close. So
close.

When I made the
final turn onto our road, my eyes cut to the hillock. Empty. The Horseman was
not there.
Thank God
. I rode straight to the stables and quietly led
Dewdrop to her stall.

I hid the sword
under a bed of hay
– I will not have it foul my room
– then slipped into
the house, tiptoed upstairs, and readied myself for bed.

With only the
sound of my breathing, I waited through the cold dark hours.

* *
*

Rising before dawn, I slinked out
of bed, prepared, and hurried downstairs.

With no hearth
fire lit, the empty kitchen was like a frigid tomb. And while every part of me
quaked, I needed that biting chill to keep me moving.

I had no stomach
for food, but I took an apple for later and grabbed a small bag of sage from
our herb cabinet…for extra measure. Trying to steady my hand, I wrote a simple
note to Simon. Though he could read a little, I felt the note itself would
serve its purpose.

Have gone
alone. Do not tell Father.

I left it in the
tea bin where only he would find it. Then sweeping on my cloak, I set out.

The predawn air
spiked me, and a light morning frost clung to my hem as my skirts brushed over
the crisp brown grass.

After reaching the
stables, I raked back the hay, retrieving the sword. No phantom had come in the
night to reclaim it. I tugged on my gloves, assuring the vile thing would not
touch my flesh, then hiding it under my cloak again, I rode.

The moon had set
and all but a few stars had faded. Claret rays of the Eastern sun now lined the
horizon. Dewdrop galloped with haste as we rode amid gray and blue shadows…all
the way to the cemetery.

There was little
light, but enough to see my way. The towering weeds were dry and brittle,
easily drawn back and trampled. I walked slowly, careful that no burrowing
rodents scurried under my skirt.

I expected the
grave to be a dense patch of packed earth, but thanks to the ants, gophers and
moles, there were many runners and mounds that loosened the dirt.

Fortune is on
my side.

But my heart
drummed with each step as I conjured images of a bony hand bursting through the
soil, clutching my ankle, and dragging me under.

Concentrate.

Inhaling all my
fears, I raggedly exhaled them away. Then, unsheathing the sword, I gripped the
hilt with both fists, braced my arms, and brought the blade down, stabbing it
into the grave.

Almost.

It’d only gone
halfway.

Blast!

With gritted
teeth, I bared down on the hilt – thrusting and straining and driving it until
it sank the rest of the way in.

I stumbled back,
sweeping loose strands of hair from my face. Still heaving, I opened the sage
and sprinkled it on the dirt.

“Try rising now,
Devil.”

Feeling confident
that I’d completed the job, I spit on the grave and left.

The sun was
finally making an appearance when I reached the empty church. It was still
quite early, most of the Hollow just rising. Exhausted and drained, I sank onto
the chair at the table, and laid my head upon my crossed arms.

It is done.

I’d rest a short
time – until the Reverend arrived with the satchel. Just close my eyes…for a
bit.

I don’t know if
I’d lolled there minutes or hours. Time was lost. But I became aware of
footfall behind me. The stalk of someone’s boots. I held my breath, keeping my
eyes clamped tight. I did not need sight to know who was lurking.

How have you risen?

I remained dead
still, worried that my banging heart might give me away.
Flee,
I told
myself.
Go! Now!
But my body was leaden. Some metaphysical bond held me.

How could this be?
I was in church. Nothing evil should befall me here. Yet the coldness threatened,
as though God really had forsaken me and retired to Amsterdam.

The footsteps
halted. He stood directly behind me…over me. Then next, I felt the cutting
chill of a steel tip pressed lightly against my neck.

Heaven help me.
Instead of sealing him in, I’d given him back his sword.

Now it was I who
was sealed. Pinned. If I attempted to rise, the blade would thrust through my
throat, skewering me like a roasting hen.

How long did he
mean to restrain me? Until all the blood drained from my limbs? Until my body
cramped and screamed with pain? It was evident that he knew my weakness.
Confinement. This was more than just retribution for my attempt to seal him.
This
is a game of torture.

He held me there
for an eternity. My arms tingled, my neck pinched, and my resting cheek grew
weary. Then just when the pain reached its agonizing pique, he dragged the tip
of the blade to my jaw. Stepping closer, he took up a lock of my hair, and with
the swish of a swift stroke, he sliced it from my scalp. It ripped more than
cut, leaving a burning sting behind my ear. That’s when I did scream – a
piercing shrill that echoed through the church.

He gripped my
shoulder, squeezing hard.

“Miss Katrina.”

I screamed again.

“Miss Katrina!”

My eyes flew open
and I started, nearly tumbling from the chair.

Simon grabbed my
arm to keep me from upright. “Whoa there, Miss Katrina.”

I jerked about,
checking my surroundings.

“Calm down now,”
he soothed. “It was just a bad dream.”

“Of course,” I
said, my limbs tingling as the circulation returned. “I must’ve nodded off.”

Or had I?
I
still felt the chill of The Horseman skulking nearby.

Simon waited until
I’d composed myself before saying, “Miss Katrina, you had me worried sick,
running off like that.”

“I’m sorry, Simon.
I didn’t mean to put you in such an awkward position.”

“Just please don’t
do it again. Mr. Baltus would string me up.”

I considered all
that I’d gone through last night. “I won’t.” But I avoided making it a promise.

“The Reverend
asked me to bring this in.” He placed the satchel on the table.

I took a moment to
clear my head, then glanced at it. The remedy for all my aches and fears lay
inside. Surely Ichabod had sent me another written reminder of this affection.

Simon patted my
shoulder. “If everything’s all right, I’ll be heading back.”

“Everything’s
fine.”

He nodded,
satisfied with that. “But I
will
be here to fetch you this afternoon.”

I smiled up. “Of
course.”

Once he’d gone, my
senses revived. I eagerly reached out for the satchel. That’s when I noticed my
fist was clenched. Inside was a large wad of my hair.

* *
*

I spent the better part of the
school day sitting behind the table. Not only because I was exhausted, but in
an attempt to hide the hem of my skirt – rimmed with mud from dragging it
through dirt and dew. As it turned out, I was kept awake and alert by the
children, who always tested my patience. And my mind churned, wondering how to
tell Ichabod exactly what I’d done.

We had always
proceeded carefully in case the Reverend or another of the Council felt a need
to review our correspondence. But that afternoon I took a chance.

Ichabod, I have
spent a long, weary night securing your safety. Everyone’s safety. Among the
swords that had been confiscated from Smedt’s hoard, I found the Hessian’s. I
braved the dangers (for you are more than worth it) to imprison him with his
own blade. He is now sealed in his grave.